Unwillingly looking after Sister Maria, I realised that she would definitely never speak to me again.

«Does she really know?» – I thought, not taking my eyes off her straight, narrow back as she walked away from me. The girl's coat was soaking wet from the fall onto the wet pavement.

I don't know why, I don't know how, but I had an irresistible urge to follow Maria’s sister, and I rushed to the car, but suddenly I saw a white envelope lying on the road, already covered with drizzle. It must have fallen out of the hysterical girl's bag when she fell off her bicycle.

I picked up the envelope, got into the car, ignoring the drivers' shouts of displeasure, and followed the girl carefully, keeping a good distance, knowing that she was unlikely to think that she was being followed. Finally, I saw her turn onto Cowley Road and stop outside a two-storey old looking cottage with white wooden windows, put her bike down by the stairs, put a lock on it and went into the house.

Now that I knew where she lived, I decided that I would definitely stop by to visit her: I wanted to talk to her, to find out what she knew about me and Maria. On the way home, I wondered how this girl had ended up here in this city, for if Maria had told her what had happened between us, this hysterical girl would never have come to Oxford, where I lived. After that unpleasant incident, Maria and I gave each other our word that we would never meet again. And so, in Oxford, I had just met her sister, about whom Maria had told me nothing.

When I got home, I threw off my robe and clothes and took a shower: I wanted to wash away the unpleasant feeling that had come over me after seeing Maria’s sister, but I realised with doom that I would never be able to forget that shame, because a living reminder of Maria would keep flashing before my eyes. I left the bathroom, put on clean clothes, picked up one of the fresh newspapers, sat down in an armchair, and began to read, but I couldn't concentrate on reading as I mentally returned to my encounter with the hysterical girl today.

«Maria’s sister. Another Mroczek. And I don't even know her name. And this girl's got a mouth on her!» – I grinned and tried to continue reading, but the article: «Modern economic systems of the world» ended for me at the third line – further the meaning was lost.

I tossed the paper aside and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

Of course, vampires didn't smoke, or rather, they could, but smoking was considered a plebeian habit, but I didn't care: I smoked often, and I didn't care whether I was considered a plebeian or not. I'd never fit the mould of a normal, aristocratic vampire anyway, even though I was an aristocrat by birthright, but I didn't care.

I pulled a cigarette out of the pack and lit it, inhaling deeply of the tart smoke. It was my second cigarette of the day. Then I remembered the envelope that the young vampire had lost, went to the car to get it, and went back up to the office, sat back in my chair, put my feet up on the desk (a bad habit) and stared at the envelope. After running my eye over the recipient's address, I found the name: «Misha Mroczek.»

«Misha? It suits her: an unusual name for a hysterical girl» I thought, looking at the envelope: it was opened, so Misha had already read its contents.

Should I have read it? No, well-bred people don't do that, but I was just a reclusive cancer, a lone vampire, and a smoker, so I pulled out the letter and read it, chuckling to myself. It was Maria’s handwriting.